Anathema
by Kendal
Summary: When Sebastien meets his soulmate, Anna -- the girl he's been in love with forever -- has to convince him that they will never have a fairy tale ending and that Ianthe is the one he needs to be with. But will he listen? Fin.
1. Anathema 1/3

Taking a break from Illusoire... Just a short one. I promise part 7 will be up by Friday, and you'll know what the spell does *and* what Tierney looks like. I just got inspired yesterday afternoon for some reason. This is going to be two parts, of which the second will be up next week, hopefully. Hope you enjoy!  
  
Kendal :)  
  
  
  
Anathema - Part One of Two  
  
  
  
"Let's play pretend."  
  
One of my favorite games. I used to love playing pretend. For starters, it was the only way I ever found anything. If my keys were lost, I could spend all day searching for them, unless I played pretend. Asking myself, "If I were my keys, where would I hide?" guaranteed a maximum of five minutes' retrieval time. Back then, my life was easy and that game only made it easier.  
  
Maybe I should take the time to introduce myself. My name is Anna. Well, the shortened version is. My full name is Analusia Paris, after two places my mother visited and loved. I'm eighteen years old, depending on how you look at it, and I hate the dark. I quit playing pretend two years ago. Two years and sixty-four days, seven hours and thirty-seven minutes.  
  
Oh, and right now, we're pretending that I'm alive.  
  
I'd say that's a respectable reason to resurrect the game, even if Sebastien and Ianthe don't agree with me. They sit as far away from each other as possible. Both are tense, wary, and Ianthe's fingers flutter nervously in her lap. Occasionally, she reaches up to tug those fingers through her long golden hair. Really, truly the color of pure gold. And I don't blame her for her nervous habits. I remember what it was like, trying to find something to do with my hands so they didn't betray my awkward anxiety, all the while thinking of words to fill that stifling silence.  
  
In contrast to Ianthe's nervous fidgeting, Bastien sits stubbornly and defiantly still, as if daring us to notice. And, of course, we do. His melting chocolate eyes stare straight through me. Through transparent skin once the color of café au lait, through silky locks only a few shades darker, and through eyes spinning into an odd mixture of gold and green. Curiously, my eyes are the only opague thing about me, and Bastien meets them with little reluctance.  
  
He never did shy away from a challenge. I suppose, at this point, that is what I represent. We've always been close, Bastien and I. I could be egotistical here and tell you that he's always wanted me, always felt like there was a part of me I wasn't giving. I'm not really sure telling you that would serve any purpose, but it's too late anyway, isn't it?  
  
He claims to be in love with me. But I'm dead. Nothing is going to change that. No matter how much Bastien wishes, hopes, pleads, and prays, I'm still buried under six feet of mud. I'm sure if he thought any chance rested in my cold veins, he'd be outside digging me up.  
  
I've assured him it would be pointless.  
  
Ianthe, it seems, is Bastien's soulmate. She's a witch. Neither she nor he has mentioned this little detail, but I can tell. All the signs are there, clearer than a funeral toll on a gloomy Monday morning, not to be morbid or maudlin. She's given up on pretending not to be nervous now, instead twisting the pendant around her neck this way and that. It gleams and spasms in the light.  
  
Yes, let's play pretend. The silence has stretched long enough.  
  
"Let's pretend I'm alive."  
  
Interesting how Bastien flinches when I say that. He rubs his hand over short-cropped dark hair, tiny nubs of curls, lighter than his eyes but with more red in those strands. Only a few shades darker than his skin. Just like mine. Even though I see the subtle pain arch across his face, I continue.  
  
"In our make-believe world, I'm eighteen and going off to college. Or, if we really feel like using our imaginations, we can pretend I got discovered by an exclusive modeling agency and hopped a plane to New York, where I became fabulously famous. If that's too much of a stretch, I'll understand." The look on Bastien's face says it isn't. "Wherever I am, it isn't here."  
  
Ianthe's hands pause their nervous twisting, winding and unwinding the chain around her silver pentagram, frozen for just a second in endless time. Bastien has already told her he doesn't want her, several times, and once in front of me. If I was still alive, I would have slapped him.  
  
Finally, he speaks up. He keeps his eyes trained on my wavering form, pointedly avoiding looking in Ianthe's direction. "I don't see any point to this."  
  
He wouldn't. I'm sure Ianthe doesn't, either. Earlier, I noticed the confusion roiling over her features like a tumbling wave crashing against shore. I'm not sure she wants him any more than he wants her, though I am sure she doesn't know what to think.  
  
First of all, to find out your soulmate is human. Second, that he's in love with a ghost. Of all the luck. If I was her, I would be praying to the Goddess as ferverently as possible, pleading to make this all a bad dream. But then, Ianthe doesn't seem all that bright, if you ignore the glare of her hair in the candlelight.  
  
I close my eyes briefly, hoping for the strength to deal with his stubbornness. He isn't an easy case. "We're pretending, Bastien. Pretend you see one."  
  
It's hard to keep the sharp tones out of my voice. I want so badly for him to realize that he can't keep me with him, even if he stays in this room for the rest of his life. I'm a myth, a fantasy, but I'm not real. At exactly seven o'clock every night, he can pretend that he and I are still together, but when he reaches to touch me, he grabs only empty air.  
  
It's a hard realization for him to swallow. I know because he's told me, and because I can see his emotions wage war in those mahagony eyes. He doesn't seem to understand that I'm his anathema. I told him once, and after looking up the word, he laughed at me. In that moment, all I could think was how appropriate my nickname was, because it could be derived from this -- a word that truly modified me -- as easily as from the label my mother had given me.  
  
And truly, I am his curse, such as the word "anathema" denotes. It can't be easy to have a love life when you've got a ghost floating through your curtains. Not that I would mind being circumspect. I could very easily make myself scarce while he and his soulmate did --  
  
Well, those are things I don't want to think about. I have my own memories of Bastien without creating memories for another girl. Frankly, the thought disturbs me. I really don't want to be around for that, because it would mean that I'm wrong.  
  
See, my theory is simple. If Bastien falls in love with someone else (and who better than his soulmate?), I get my Get Out of Jail Free card. I've been waiting for that privilege for two years and sixty-three days, seven hours and forty-six minutes. I had a one day grace period at the very beginning, while I raged and screamed and demanded to know what the hell was going on. It focused into sharp parameters once Bastien shakily informed me I was dead.  
  
It's good to know these things sometimes. I thanked him politely for telling me, recommended a good shrink, and promptly floated through the door. When it occurred to me that moving through objects is not possible according to the laws of physics, I started to think he might be right.  
  
Bastien hates to play pretend.  
  
"I never liked that game." His voice is flat and uncompromising. What a shock. It's nearly impossible to get Bastien to do something he doesn't want to do. Right now he doesn't want to admit I'm dead. So why doesn't he want to pretend I'm alive?  
  
Simple.  
  
He would have to let go.  
  
I wish they made a greeting card for that. You know. Something like, "Sorry, I'm dead, but move on with your life before your soulmate thinks you're a necrophiliac." But I think that might overstep the bounds of decency. Even Hallmark has to draw the line somewhere.  
  
I'd bet you ten dollars they could even make it rhyme, but I have little use for money anymore.  
  
Pushing those thoughts aside for another time, I shrug. "Deal with it," I respond, and I'm sorry to say my voice is very unsympathetic. "I'm playing a damned game, and the least you can do is humor the dead girl."  
  
His mouth snaps closed. I think that reminder might have done it, because he doesn't seem overtly anxious to say anything else. Oops. Chalk one up for insensitivity.  
  
"The dead girl looks like Tyra Banks."  
  
Suddenly I'm shocked into silence. It's not that I haven't heard that before or that the idea is something new, but this *is* the first time I've heard Ianthe speak. Her voice is quiet and cultured, like that of a princess who has spent her whole life locked away in a tower, with only her tutors to keep her company.  
  
She and Bastien met today, for the first time, and she told Bastien they were soulmates. He sneered, from what I understand, and walked away from her. I think he told her he was already in love with someone, and she got angry enough that she followed. It's not surprising that she doesn't know what to expect.  
  
"I can understand why Bastien would want you over me."  
  
How do you respond to a statement like that? It isn't easy, especially not to a girl who is slim, beautiful, and most importantly, alive. Time to throw the cards down on the table. The sad thing is, I've only got a pair, and neither half is really mine.  
  
I look away from her soulmate finally, ripping my gaze and my soul away at the same time. "Well, I can't."  
  
She stares at her hands then, her lower lip trembling. Her skin is so flawless that even I am amazed at how it glows, like a lily petal with light streaming beneath it. Maybe the certainty behind my words refreshes her own doubts and dreams. Maybe it angers her. If I cared, it might make a difference.  
  
But I don't.  
  
Obviously, neither does Bastien.  
  
"It's you I love, Anna." So much passion suffuses his voice. I want to tell him I'm not me to love, but I think I have a better chance of convincing a cat to leave the mouse alone. He's got about the same attention span.  
  
My weightless shoulders shrug, the light playing oddly on my dark skin. You wouldn't think I would reflect light, me being dead and all, but apparently that doesn't make a difference. "You love a memory."  
  
He doesn't like that answer any more than he liked playing pretend. And speaking of that...  
  
"Let's pretend that I'm alive and gone." My voice is harsh. Sometimes you have to be brutal to the ones you love, or they will never fly free. I've never been one for keeping mine in cages, no matter how gilded the bars might be. It would hurt me almost as much as it would hurt them. "And let's pretend that I don't want to be with you. That I've told you that."  
  
His face falls, while Ianthe looks merely perplexed. Neither seems to understand where I'm going with this. And here I thought I'd stated it rather blatantly only a few minutes ago. "I'm not yours anymore, Bastien. I belong--" I sigh and my voice trails off. I really don't want to hurt him, though if it's necessary, I will. "I belong where you can't go."  
  
I should have expected the stubbornness that creeps across his face. One of the first things I learned about him is that you can't tell him that he can't do, have, want, etc. He's like an errant child in that respect. Forbidden fruit is his favorite food.  
  
"I could go." Hushed, quiet tones. "I could join you right now."  
  
Wonderful. I just love when he gets ambitious. "No, you couldn't," I reply. "Don't even think about it. There are no guarantees here, Bastien."  
  
Ianthe is silent once again, but now she's shooting curious glances out of the corner of her eye. His statement must have aroused some uncertainty in her head. I don't know if it's interest in why someone would be willing to die to be with me or in what that tells her about his personality. I'm hoping it's the latter.  
  
Interest is definitely a good thing. I hope she's reading more into the devotion aspect than anything else, because clearly, Bastien is devoted. We hardly need to prove that.  
  
"It's worth the risk." He meets my eyes defiantly.  
  
Maybe too devoted. Did I mention something about slapping him earlier? Oh, what I would do for a pair of hands...  
  
I glare as well as I can from my wavering image. "It's *not* worth the risk! It's stupid to even consider that." I didn't realize it at first, but my skin has started glowing. I take a deep breath, ignore the distracting gold light, and stare him down to the best of my ability. It's not easy when you're not solid. "You have so many opportunities and so many things you could do. Do you really want to waste those experiences for me?"  
  
"I don't think it would be a waste," he shrugs.  
  
I want to scream in frustration, but Ianthe looks ready to bolt as it is. It's probably a good idea not to scare her, since she seems frightened enough. "I really don't care what you want," I snap instead, which probably isn't a good idea, either. Ianthe winces. I notice that the glowing has stopped.  
  
"You don't care if I'm happy?" He sounds hurt. His dark brown eyes are crushed; his full mouth droops. When he sits back, his shoulders sag.  
  
Trust him to take it out of context. Now the question is: do I pacify him or tell him to go to hell?  
  
Definitely the former. Tact has always scored me more points in the past. Why would anything be different now? And I don't want to lie to him.  
  
"Of course, I care." No matter what derisive comments I might make to myself, I really do. You can't spend seven years of your life with someone and be completely apathetic. You can be enraged, contemplate homicide, and consider therapy, but you still have to feel something. "But I'm more concerned with what's best for you than with how happy you are about it."  
  
After all, his obsession with me is *not* healthy.  
  
He glares. "You're a ghost. How do you know what will make me happy?"  
  
Oh, goody. The question makes me itch to give him a brain transplant. I've been dead for two years and we're still fighting about his tastes. I hate how he insists on treating me just like he did when I was alive, because I'm not. Realizing you're dead really changes your perspective on things, let me tell you.  
  
"I know you well enough to know what won't."  
  
Bastien doesn't seem to know what to say to that. I decide to let silence reign while I stare out the window into the endless dark. How funny the three of us must look sitting here. Or, to anyone passing by, the two of us. Bastien and Ianthe really haven't moved from their self-exile on the couch and I can barely be seen at all. Just a whisper in the soft glow of the candles.  
  
If anyone looked inside and paid attention for more than just a few seconds, they might be curious about those two, sitting like strangers. They might wonder why the boy talks, refusing to look at the girl as he does so, and why the girl doesn't answer. Why this one-sided conversation pains the two so much.  
  
Or they might pass by without caring.  
  
"Sebastien." He jumps when I use his full name. "Why would you want to die?"  
  
He looks surprised. Again, nothing new. "I don't," he says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I just want to be with you."  
  
He's just contradicted himself. The only way that will happen is if he's dead. Ianthe's pretty face has twisted into a scowl. Apparently, I'm not the only one to see the irony here.  
  
The scowl morphs into a mask of annoyance. Perhaps she's tired of being silent, of letting her soulmate profess his love and pierce through her soul at the same time. Whatever happened, she's now riled up and ready for the attack.  
  
"That's not what you just said," she murmurs, staring at him out of sky- blue eyes. Challenge sizzles in the air. She tilts her head, those hooded, jewel-like eyes still fixed on him, and asks, "Do you ever leave this apartment?"  
  
"Of course," he scoffs, "I have a job."  
  
She shakes her head, her long, blond hair rippling over her shoulders, while I fight not to roll my eyes. Really, the boy can be so dense sometimes. "I'm not asking about your job. After-- Anna, what time did you say you died?"  
  
"Seven."  
  
"After seven, do you ever go anywhere? Do anything?"  
  
I can answer that question right now, and cheerfully would if it wouldn't make the situation worse. Instead, I keep my mouth shut. I think Ianthe is on my side now, which sends hope coursing through my non-existent veins. I can even allow myself to hope she might want him.  
  
Bastien doesn't seem happy about the sudden switch. She hasn't said much and I think he assumed she was in agreement with him. His face turns even darker than usual, the smooth skin crinkling into angry lines. He wipes a hand over his face as if trying to clear his head.  
  
"Well?" Ianthe seems to share my intolerance for hesitation.  
  
It's a shame we share all the traits he hates, instead of the ones he loves.  
  
"No, I never go anywhere." Unlike with my little game, he seems to know where this is leading. His shoulders tense in preparation. "I have no reason to."  
  
I guess having a life isn't that important to him anymore, because he nearly *has* become a shut-in. I have no memories of being alone after seven o'clock at night. Like he says, he has no reason to be away. His unspoken comment -- that he has every reason to be here -- hangs heavy in the air. I don't know if Ianthe doesn't notice or if she ignores it. Either way, the effect is the same.  
  
"You have no reason to live?" She's read into that statement and drawn her own conclusions. Bastien doesn't seem too keen on the idea of suicide, unless the thought is connected to being with me. I guess that's why he flushes angrily at her question.  
  
"Did I say that?"  
  
You didn't have to, I sing silently, but I force myself to stay out of this. Ianthe is working where I have failed. Besides, I've been arguing with Bastien for over seven years now. Maybe she's got something new up her sleeve that I don't.  
  
"Did you?" she counters. Her blue eyes glitter like lapis, like sapphires. I had a star sapphire once. Her eyes remind me of it. If you look closely enough, at just the right angle, you can see the beauty buried inside, that tiny fracture of light that sunbursts into a star. Shame it comes from an impurity in the stone.  
  
I wonder if that should tell me something about Ianthe.  
  
She calls my name, so I shrug that thought aside. "What?" Being a ghost has not improved my attention span. I missed Bastien's answer to her question.  
  
"I asked how you died." She leaned back again at some point, still crunched into her corner of the couch, still cowering away from Bastien. I don't know if she thinks he's going to bite her or what, but if he weren't here, I'd assure her he's human. In present circumstances, mentioning that in front of him wouldn't get a good reaction, I'm sure.  
  
"Why?" Suddenly, I love these one word answers. They give me time to stall.  
  
She flicks her tongue nervously over her bottom lip and makes a vague gesture with her right hand. "I want to know. I mean, you died in this apartment, didn't you?"  
  
So maybe she's a little brighter than I thought. Why else would I be haunting the place? It's not for the decor, trust me. The place is way too dark for my tastes, and more often than not, Bastien has only candles for light. I like candles. I even like candle light. I do not like floating through every piece of furniture in the house because I can't see a damned thing.  
  
"I did," I admit carefully, thinking of how I want to answer this question. No real mystery to what happened, but I would definitely give her a different version than I would give Bastien. After all, she is a witch. Besides the pentagram, the black dahlia gracing her finger flashes like a billboard. "It was nothing special."  
  
The look she's giving me says she isn't stupid and she isn't buying it. "Were you murdered?"  
  
I glance uneasily at Bastien. He's shaking his head sadly to refute her question. "No," I say slowly. "I had a heart attack."  
  
She still doesn't look convinced. "Did you really?" she muses. Something in her blueberry eyes tells me she knows there's more to it than that. I'm not sure how she knows. It's easy to get a sense of a living person, but does a ghost really give off the same vibes?  
  
"Hmm." I tilt my head, staring at that ring, each petal shaped and sculpted from some sort of black stone. Maybe onyx. "I really like your ring."  
  
Blinking in surprise, she holds it up, looking at it like she's never seen it before. "Thank you. It's a family heirloom." She slides my patchy image a sly glance out of the corner of her eye. "It was my great-great- grandmother's."  
  
I manage polite disinterest. "Really? How nice."  
  
She nods, then she starts to cough. Great, big hacking coughs, like we should be joined by her lungs in a very short amount of time. Not a pretty thought. Her body doubles over and she wheezes, taking gasping breaths of air in the few seconds she has to do so. Blond hair falling forward and obscuring her face.  
  
Bastien doesn't seem to know what to do, whether to grab her or shrink away.  
  
"Get her some water, Bastien!" I snap. He can be so useless during a crisis, if that's what this is.  
  
He jumps up from his seat, racing down the stairs, his shoes clacking against the tile as he runs. Apparently the water from the adjacent bathroom isn't good enough. I waft closer to see if I can help.  
  
Ianthe stops coughing abruptly. She sits back, her eyes bright and narrowed. "What do you know about my ring?"  
  
I pause for a moment, my eyes widening like two growing saucers of light. It looks like Ianthe is a little more cunning than I thought. And now it's time to tell her what I know.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Comments would be loved and cherished!  
  
Kendal :) 


	2. Anathema 2/3

This part has been fixed... aka, I rewrote a large chunk of it, which means it's different, which means you should probably read it before you read part three or you're going to be really, really confused.   
  
  
Running away seems to be a theme for my stories lately. I quit trying to control them. ::sigh:: This has morphed into (hopefully only) a three part thing. I'll try to have the next part done by the beginning of next week, and Illusoire will be up in the next couple of days. I'm just lazy.  
  
Kendal  
  
  
Kouri - Thanks for letting me know you like it! It did some weird things when I started part two, so I don't know what's going.   
  
Rain - I like Illusoire better personally, just because I know what happens. It's more fun for me to write. It does have more humor in it, because Anna runs off at the mouth. I am really glad that you like it, and thanks!  
  
Eleyne - Thanks, chica! I still maintain that I have no control over this, so blame the whole thing on the characters, please. I'm thrilled you like it, though, and thanks so much!  
  
Sianna Keyna - Merci! I had some trouble getting Anna back into character, so I hope it continues. :)  
  
  
  
Anathema - Part Two of Three  
  
  
"I know it signifies you're a witch," I tell her warily. I hope that's what she means, and that it wasn't just one of those fluke questions. Hey, for all I know, she's not Nightworld at all.  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
How does she think I know? And anyway, what difference does it make? It's not like she can do anything about it now. Perhaps I should remind her that I'm dead and harmless. "Because I'm a witch, too."   
  
"You were Nightworld?"   
  
She seems so surprised by this revelation. Perhaps her confusion comes from knowing Bastien is human, perhaps she didn't expect me to answer so candidly. Either way, suspicion darts over her features. Oddly, that emotion makes her look more inhuman, less like a witch and more like a vampire. I have to wonder if she has one's blood in her veins.   
  
"I was." I smile, my shimmering eyes meeting her sapphire, and add, "And I loved every minute of it."  
  
Now, don't get me wrong. I wasn't one of those witches who constantly brewed love spells and designed charms to leave boys trailing after me. I didn't hex human girls who annoyed me or enchant teachers into giving me grades I didn't deserve. And I never -- *never* -- put any spells on Bastien for any reason.   
  
I think it was my own sense of pride that stopped me more than anything else. If Bastien wanted me, it was because I was *me* and not because of some spelled perfume I'd created to draw him in. You can put spells on someone and they'll be yours, but you'll never have them completely until you have them mind, body, and soul.   
  
And did I ever have Bastien. Damned shame now, isn't it?  
  
Ianthe looks troubled. "Sebastien doesn't know?"  
  
I shake my head, knowing my image fades in and out like a transparent sheet wavering in the wind. "I never told him. After all," I add softly, "it's against the law."  
  
She doesn't look like she cares much about the law at this point. "Law or no, I can't believe you never did."  
  
"Why?" I draw myself up, which puts at least an extra foot of air between the floor and me, indignance coursing through me. "I love Bastien. I wouldn't hurt him for anything, especially not you. If he had known, he would be dead. Simple as that."   
  
Stunned, she holds her hands up in a warding gesture, which makes me roll my eyes and sigh. We both know that won't do any good, nor will it solve anything. Apparently, the sigh reassures her, because she relaxes and lets her hands drop to the couch.   
  
"You looked..."   
  
I raise an eyebrow and wait, crossing my arms over my misty chest. "Yes?"  
  
"You still have power," she whispers. "Your eyes promised--"  
  
"Some sort of awful retribution, I'm sure," I interrupt. "And if I still had power, I would have extricated myself from this half-heaven, half-hell scenario more than two years ago." I let that sink in for a minute. I'm getting a little impatient here, and why not? I've only got two more hours before the sun comes up. "What do you think of Bastien?"  
  
She doesn't have time to answer. His footsteps pound against the stairs as he runs back to join us. I have to wonder if he's managed to keep any of the water in the glass. He bursts into the room and, sure enough, half the water sloshes onto the carpet.   
  
"Is she okay?" He directs the question at me, not even looking at Ianthe.   
  
"Last time I checked, 'she' had both a name and vocal cords. Why don't you ask her yourself?"   
  
I think the tone of my voice offended him, because the expression on his face is not cooperative. He glares at me, then turns to Ianthe. At least he remembers she's there. "Are you okay?" His words and tone are cursory, as if he doesn't really care, but asks because I'm forcing him to. Really, you'd think I'm punishing him from the way he's acting.   
  
Rubbing her hand over her throat as if to soothe it, she nods, a final, delicate cough escaping her. "I'm fine," she murmurs. Her voice is husky, sore, and I almost feel like commending her acting skills, or maybe nominating her for an Academy award. I even notice the slight sheen of tears drenching her eyes, like they'd been watering.   
  
He holds the water uncertainly. I don't think he realizes he should offer it to her instead of just holding it. But then I look closer. Something has sparked in his eyes, something that looks suspiciously like...   
  
Lust.   
  
Well, that's unexpected. It shouldn't be, but it is. Bastien hasn't looked at another girl -- that I've seen, anyway -- in the last three years. Not really, truly *looked* at them like they were female. I've seen the wistful sighs follow him out of the room and the coy, flirtatious glances cast his way. You'd have to be blind not to notice them. Yet he never seems to.   
  
She smiles shyly at him, extending her arm to accept the half-empty glass of water. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Oh, how sweet. They're making progress. I think that's what this is, at any rate. It might be a good idea to disappear and let them have some time alone... In fact, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do. Now, should I just fade into the shadows or should I give them some warning?   
  
"Anna."  
  
If I were still alive, I would have jumped. I was not expecting their attention to switch back to me. I guess that solves my dilemma, though. Too late to simply disappear, so I'm going to have to tell them. Though I am curious as to why they called my name. "Yeah?" I ask.   
  
"How did you die?" Ianthe stares at me -- or through me, if you want to get technical -- and raises an eyebrow. She looks far too sweet and innocent to induce this kind of trouble. It's a bitch that appearances can be so deceiving.   
  
The light fades from Bastien's eyes. He shakes his head, probably in disgust, because he hates when people ask stupid questions. As far as he knows, we answered this one already, long before he left the room. Flopping on his end of the couch, he props his feet on the battered coffee table. For some reason, he's decided to relax. "She already told you. A heart attack."  
  
An uncomfortable silence settles over the room. I hate that she's left it to me to tell him instead of doing it herself. Her eyes meet mine, not accusing, simply questioning. She knows the previous answer was a lie as surely as I do. I guess it's time to rock Bastien's world, though I'd always thought I'd do it in a different way.   
  
"I was poisoned," I shrug. "Apparently, cyanide and dragon's blood are lethal when mixed."  
  
So much for relaxation. At my resigned confession, he shoots up from that slumped position, his dark eyes widening in disbelief. You know, I think he might be shocked. I'll bet you a new body that his next reaction is denial.   
  
"Anna, what are you talking about? You had a heart attack!" Now his feet are sitting squarely on the floor and he's tense, like he's going to jump up at any moment. I don't know what he thinks standing will accomplish. It's not like he can shake some sense into me.   
  
I tuck an imaginary strand of hair behind my ear. Even when you're dead, you don't lose your nervous habits. Playing with my hair was one of my favorites. I still can't believe I'm doing this. "That's what it looked like," I agree.   
  
He's having none of this revelation. "Of course that's what it looked like, because that's what it was. Would you like to see the death certificate?"  
  
"I already have, but thank you for the offer." I meet his eyes directly, letting him feel the full effect of those otherworldly orbs. It's just not natural to have eyes but no body, unless you're in the middle of biology class, which we clearly aren't. "I accidentally got a wrong ingredient. It messed up a spell."  
  
"Right, and I'm the Wizard of Oz."   
  
Ianthe has seemingly had enough. "No, you're not, but unless you want me to turn into the Wicked Witch of the West, you'll shut up and listen."  
  
Bastien's mouth snaps shut.  
  
Well, now I know who'll wear the pants in this relationship. "May I continue?"   
  
I should try to lessen the sarcasm. His jaw sets stubbornly in classic "I'm going to pretend I'm paying attention even though I think they're crazy" position and he nods, but at least he did make some concession. I suppose I should be grateful.   
  
"Please, do," Ianthe murmurs.  
  
Even so, I hesitate. Bastien hasn't been overly receptive to my explanation and I don't expect him to welcome what he would deem lies. Bastien's about as open to new ideas as a dead bolted safe. And as for magic... Well, he may not laugh in the face of danger, but he snickers at the thought of the supernatural. In fact, let's say Bastien's acceptance is like the Pay-Per-View reception on a television without cable. All you're going to get is static and garbled messages.   
  
He's sullen and obviously impatient, tapping his fingers against his muscled forearm. Ianthe, on the other hand, silently encourages me to speak.   
  
"I was trying to do a spell," I say finally, sighing. "I bought what I thought was orchid petals and essence of rose. It was supposed to be a relaxation spell, to help me study. But I guess the bottle was marked wrong. Somehow I got a strong poison instead of soothing extracts."  
  
Sympathy washes over Ianthe's face. "You couldn't smell the difference in the ingredients?" she asks softly.   
  
I shake my head, responding negatively to her question. If only it had been that easy, but... "The smell was camouflaged under the scent of flowers. I thought I had what I needed. I know it was an accident, though."   
  
"How?"   
  
Her dark blue eyes are soft and empathetic. I think she'll be a good match for Bastien, that maybe she has enough patience to deal with his stubbornness and enough steel running through her veins to keep him from walking over her.   
  
This is the truly ironic part. "My sister sold me the ingredient," I murmur, a wry smile curving my lips.   
  
Bastien sits straight up when I say that, this time his eyes bulging instead of merely widening. "Are you trying to say Melissa is a witch?"   
  
His fine features are skeptical. I think of all the things he's heard tonight, this is the one he deems the least realistic. My sister puts on a good front. It's hard to tell she's a witch, or that there's anything different about her at all. I used to envy her for that, but now, in retrospect, I realize how sad it is that she has to hide her true nature.  
  
"I'm not *trying* to say anything. I *am* saying." I bite my lower lip to keep from screaming, never mind that I can't feel it. He really, truly aggravates me. "Melissa is a witch, I'm a witch..."  
  
Ianthe smiles brightly. "And so am I."  
  
Now Bastien's expression has turned incredulous. He whips around to face his soulmate, his mouth hanging open, looking like he wants to say something, but apparently unable to get the words out. "Anna has an excuse," he exclaims. "She's dead and her brain's gone screwy, but there's no logical reason for you to think you're a witch!"  
  
She tosses her long gold hair over her shoulder, cerulean eyes flashing indignantly. "I am a witch," she states coldly. Her gaze shifts back to me, but now she's wearing the haughtiness of a queen, her back straight and her head tilted at a regal angle. "Please, Anna. Finish your story."  
  
I feel like telling her to turn him into something disgusting and easily squashed first, just to prove our point. I have an awful vindictive streak, and Bastien made me quite angry with the comment about my brain being screwy. It's not hard to understand Ianthe doesn't really care how I died, other than idle curiosity. She just wanted me to break the news to Bastien so she didn't have to. Looking at his reaction, it's not difficult to see why.   
  
"Nothing else to tell," I shrug. "I put the orchid petals and the rose into the mixture. When I drank it, it increased my heartbeat until just enough oxygen got cut off from the muscle to kill me. And I know it wasn't Melissa's fault."  
  
"You seem very sure of that," Ianthe comments. Her expression is completive, as though she can't believe my naïveté.   
  
I stare flatly back at her. If I knew anyone at all, it was Melissa. Probably better than even Bastien. She was my best friend during childhood, something that didn't change once we slipped into our teenage years. Even though she was younger, she was my mentor, my support, and my confident. If Ianthe thinks she's going to incite doubt about my sister's innocence, I'll help Bastien get rid of her now, and the hell with his happiness.   
  
Then again, acting in anger probably isn't the best thing for him.   
  
So, keeping Bastien's future in mind instead of a few brief moments of personal satisfaction, I manage to wrap my anger like a neat ball of yarn. I even smile at her. Too bad it looks more like I'm baring my teeth.   
  
"I trust Melissa better than I trust myself," I say, my voice that slight nuance between freezing and simply inducing hypothermia. "My death almost destroyed her."   
  
Bastien chimes in at this point, finally showing that he can be useful despite his hormones. "She had to be sedated," he confirms sadly. His eyes meet mine, understanding passing between them. We're not going to mention the months of therapy that followed.   
  
Silent for just a moment longer, Ianthe looks properly chastised for implying that my sister might be responsible for my death. It doesn't stop her from making one last ditch effort to prove her point. "How was the relationship between you and your sister?"  
  
"Wonderful. What if Bastien promises to explain later?" My eyes order her to agree. "I have less than two hours before the sun comes up."  
  
That earns me an evil glare from Bastien. I guess he doesn't like that suggestion. I know he's hoping that I'll disappear, and then he can send Ianthe away with very little ceremony and no arguing on my part. Probably why he hasn't suggested it to her yet. He knows I'd have quite a bit to say about it. Of course, I'm going to have something to say regardless, and if he sends her away, he's going to be hearing about it for so long that he's going to hunt her down just to end the torment.   
  
Along with being sarcastic and dead, persistence is one of my greatest virtues.   
  
Both Bastien and Ianthe reluctantly acquiesce.   
  
"Lovely. Now can we please get back to the original subject?"   
  
I know I sound like a bitch, that I'm a little too annoyed to keep irritation out of my voice, but really, they're wasting a lot of my time. Time I could be using to escape this prison. I'm trying to bully them into agreeing, but it doesn't seem to be working.   
  
Bastien hazards my wrath. "Anna, what exactly *was* the original subject?"   
  
Before I can answer, Ianthe groans, leaning over to slap him lightly on the arm. "How typical is that? A guy who doesn't listen." She smiles sweetly at him, but it's the saccharine sweetness that causes cancer. "Let's recap. We're pretending Anna is alive, because then we can pretend she's told you to go to hell." How odd that she's echoed my earlier sentiments, but where I decided to use tact, Ianthe waged a full frontal assault.   
  
"Let's not forget the part where I'm a witch," I add softly. For some reason, it's important that he believe that now.   
  
He pauses for a moment, his fingers twisting into the plush couch. His dark skin is drawn tight over his cheekbones like he suffers. "I wish you would stop lying to me. I won't cooperate better because of it."  
  
Have you ever seen a cat faced by two large, rabid dogs? A lot of bristling and hissing is involved. Their backs arch and their claws extend. They try to look like they're scarier than they actually are. Give Bastien three minutes. If we continue to shove this witch stuff down his throat, I'm sure that's what he'll look like.   
  
I waft closer to him, close enough that I look almost solid. "Right, Bastien. That pink haze and being thrown into another person's mind happens all the time."  
  
He looks at me sharply, probably wondering how I know that. They certainly didn't tell me. "How did you know that?" he asks quietly. His dark eyes darken even further and he looks suddenly tired. I know he wants to quit this game, to tell Ianthe to go away, and to grow old and die in this room with me.   
  
"It's the soulmate connection," I shrug. "I've heard enough about it to know that those two things are common."   
  
"This thing is common?" He sounds really, really disturbed by that revelation. Apparently, pink hazes are not included in his definition of "normal," though being in love with a ghost is perfectly sane. I can completely understand how he came to this conclusion.   
  
I hope it's evident I'm thinking sarcastically. I rarely understand anything Bastien does anymore, whether that involves thinking, moving, acting, or sometimes, even breathing. His mind has passed through the male realm of incomprehensible into what appears to be final stages of alcohol psychosis.   
  
Any doctor would tell you it makes sense. He's got the delusions down, withdrawal, insomnia, restlessness -- need I go on? Now if he drank anything other than water and the occasional orange juice, that explanation would describe him perfectly. It's a shame he's so straight laced. He used to be firmly grounded in reality, too, but I guess nothing lasts forever.   
  
"Very," Ianthe affirms apologetically. "Soulmates are popping up like rabbits these days."   
  
How disturbingly true. Maybe I should have poisoned the carrots while I had the chance. Then I wouldn't be in this situation with these people. I wouldn't have to convince Bastien to let me be, because he wouldn't be here anyway. I never did learn to think ahead.   
  
"Hear about it all the time," I agree.   
  
Bastien doesn't look convinced. I'd describe his expression more along the terms of "obstinate," I think, if I were given the choice. "I don't know about this -- what did you call it?" He looks at us expectantly, but getting no response, thinks for a moment. His face brightens as he remembers the term we use. "I don't know about this soulmate thing."  
  
"What's to know?" I ask. "It's a done thing."   
  
"It was a fluke," he snaps back. "Static electricity or something."  
  
Yeah, I've heard that before. Obviously, so has Ianthe. The annoyance is back on her face in full force. One thing I will say for Bastien, when he gets an idea in his head, it's easier to get a bulldog to stop attacking than change his mind. Granted, this isn't always a good thing, but I often manipulated him so I could benefit from it.   
  
I'll admit that now I'm suffering. Somehow I managed to capture him so securely that he doesn't want to let me go, regardless of what I want. Maybe once he rips my soul to shreds -- like a bulldog rips apart a bone -- he'll realize what he's doing. By then it will be too late for me to rest in peace and I can only hope to find all the pieces.   
  
I feel suddenly weary. "Keep telling yourself that, Bastien, and you'll be giving up the greatest thing in your life."  
  
"No, I won't." Again the stubbornness. "You're the greatest thing in my life."  
  
"Bastien, I'm dead!" I'm a little louder than I intended to be, but I can't help it. *Why* can he not get that into his head? I'm not in his life anymore. Hell, he doesn't *have* a life anymore! How can he? He's so *obsessed* that he doesn't have time for anything else! "I'm akin to a figment of your imagination. Let me go!"  
  
I'm angry now, and glowing once again. What fun.   
  
"It's got to be hard." Ianthe again, talking about things that have Goddess knows what relevance. She stares at Bastien, tucking a strand of that rich blond hair behind her ear. "Letting go."  
  
He merely sulks. The pretenses gone, he's not even going to try to cooperate. "It depends on what you want," he says sullenly. "I *know* what I want."  
  
Looking amused, but trying not to show it, Ianthe bites her lip. I think she's trying not to smile, though I don't know why. I don't see anything funny about this situation. She asks, "Have you thought about what Anna wants?"  
  
He looks surprised and shakes his head. Of course, not. I'm a ghost. My feelings and ideas don't matter, remember? "No," he reiterates verbally, "I never have."  
  
She nods thoughtfully, crossing one slim leg over the other, angled toward her soulmate. It's supposed to be a sign you're attracted to someone when you do that. At least, I think it is. Maybe I read it in one of those teen magazines when I was alive, a thought which seriously makes me reconsider the credibility of the interpretation.   
  
Smoothing one hand over her hair, flipping the long strands over her shoulder, she says, "You say you love him."   
  
Damn her. Of all the times to bring that up, she has to do it before I'm successfully gone. I know she's directed the comment to me, because of pronoun choice and the way Bastien's face reflects shock. My glowing, once again, abruptly stops.   
  
"I don't see what that has to do with anything," I reply coldly.   
  
He stands, moving around the coffee table and inching his way toward me. I have to stop myself from floating back. "You love me, Anna?"  
  
"Like a brother." If I still had a body, I'd be tense and fidgeting, but instead I play with the ghostly strands of my hair like Ianthe earlier played with her pendant. "I've known you long enough that you might as well be."   
  
He appears hurt. "I thought we were lovers."  
  
"You need a body for that," I point out grimly. My hands drop from my hair, instead reaching toward him. But then I stop that, too. I can't touch him anyway, and the illusion will just be chilling and unfulfilling. "That ended two years and sixty four days, eight hours and forty-one minutes ago."  
  
"She's not yours anymore," Ianthe concurs gently. They stare at each other for a moment, brown and blue clashing in emotions I remember so well, but can no longer participate in.   
  
I want to tell him that I'll always love him, that I'll always be here when he thinks of me, that I'll never forget him. But all those things would be trite, and rather like a consolation prize. And knowing that probably wouldn't prompt him into letting go anyway.   
  
Now isn't the time for that anyway, even if I really do hate hurting him. Even if I know that's exactly what I'm doing.   
  
He turns to look at me, those dark eyes pained. "Anna, what do you want from me?"   
  
Solemnly, I stare back, meeting his brown eyes with my own green, the color like oak leaves drenched in sunlight. He looks so hopeful, as if I can give him the moon and the stars and the universe, cupped gently between my hands.   
  
"I want you to hear you say it."  
  
*** 


	3. Anathema 3/3

I'm a little backed, up so please bear with me. This is finished, happy and over. Yay. Though I would like to point out that it's subject to change, so if you think it *does* need changed, please tell me and how so I can fix it. Not the ending as much as how it was done...   
  
Kendal  
  
  
Leopardess - Gracías! Anna came out of nowhere and insisted on being the way she was. She is somewhat humorous, and it was interesting to see what she came up with next. It's gotta be short, because I'm kind of lacking time and it had a set ending anyway, minus the part where I redid part 2. How she actually goes away isn't the important part to the end, cause I was trying to tie the title in more... I can't really explain, but I hope you enjoy!  
  
Sianna Kenya - Anathema is derived from Greek and Latin to mean "curse." I think it's Greek, anyway, but done quote me on that. The whole story was inspired by that word... I just kind of popped in my head one day and wouldn't leave. ::grin:: I need to learn to work on one thing at a time. Merci bien for the comments!  
  
  
Anathema - Part Three of Three  
  
  
"Say what?" he frowns.   
  
I can't help but stare at him, my mouth hanging open (I'm somewhat in awe of his stupidity), nor can I get rid of that vague itch to slap him. I can say that because it's not really an itch at all, but one of those almost uncontrollable urges to do something attention grabbing. Something Bastien can't ignore no matter how hard he tries. Believe me, if I physically slapped him at this point, he'd definitely keel over in shock.   
  
It would make my earlier point about needing a body to be lovers rather obsolete, wouldn't it?   
  
This surprise runs through my head while my mouth works like a fish flopping on dry land -- aimless and predictable. I've told him multiple times in the past what I want from him, each time to be ignored, simply because it wasn't what he wanted. And yet, he doesn't understand why I call him selfish and self-centered.   
  
I wish I could tape this moment, simply for posterity's sake. Then later, when I'm hopefully enjoying the afterlife somewhere with a mild climate, Ianthe could bring it out when he's too stubborn. I'm sure the film would be amusing if nothing else. I mean, really, how often do you watch a nineteen-year-old male obstinately telling the air he's in love with it? I know I wouldn't appear in the video, other than maybe a brief wavering of the air.   
  
Funniest Home Videos, here we come.   
  
I sigh, not knowing how else to express my frustration. "I want you to tell me that you don't love me and that you've accepted that I'm gone."   
  
A brief pause. "Okay, I don't love you and I know you're gone."   
  
He has this cute way of wrinkling his nose when he thinks I'm being anal. It should probably make me angry, because I know he's acting condescending, but I find it funny instead. His response couldn't be less sincere if he tried. Besides, getting mad doesn't accomplish anything.   
  
Ever. Believe me, I tried getting an attitude with Bastien early in the relationship. This reaction brought about two things. First, it nearly drove me to an apoplexy. Second, it made Bastien blink up at me, his eyes losing that practiced vagueness, and demand why I was blocking the football game, at which point he moved to a different chair.   
  
"Let's try it again," I say, my voice dripping with that kind of bright sarcasm, "but this time, let's do it with feeling!"   
  
Ianthe giggles. Her face lights up when she laughs. Something sparks in those berry blue eyes, that light spilling onto her cheeks in a sort of iced rose tint. With her cheeks flushed and her lips curving in a smile, she's even more stunning. I have to fight away the jealousy.   
  
Odd, isn't it? I'm not jealous that she's alive, but I'm jealous that she's prettier than I am. Dead giveaway as to my gender. If I were still walking and talking, I'd probably have to set aside the next few moments to remind myself how to breathe properly. Envy is such an unpleasant emotion.   
  
Bastien glares at me, his rich brown eyes hooded by sultry lashes. "I said what you wanted me to say."  
  
And the thing is, he really thinks it's that simple. I shake my head, sending my dark hair to ripple over my transparent form. "I didn't want you to just say it," I protest. "I want you to believe it."  
  
"Well, you didn't say that," he counters. He's got a talent for being difficult. He stares at me, his chin angled slightly toward the ceiling, defiance oozing from every pore. I wonder if there's an environmental regulation on that.   
  
Through gritted teeth, I answer, "I thought it was implied."  
  
"You think too much."   
  
He's right, of course. I do think too much. On the other hand, what else do I have to do? It's not like I can go out and party anymore, or occupy my time with school, or even do something as innocuous as reading. Well, I *can* technically do the latter, but not being able to turn pages kind of cuts down on the amount of time you can spend actually doing it.   
  
That being the case, I'll take my thinking quite happily, thank you very much. It's amazing how coherent my thought processes have gotten since I died (probably because they've had so much time to develop), though I must point out that I've acquired the most disturbing habit of rambling. I'm sure it's not noticeable, of course, and if it is, I'd rather not know.   
  
But, all's well that ends well, and hopefully my rambling will lead to a good conclusion. Preferably one involving Bastien falling in love with Ianthe, though now my glee has started to fade and I've remembered that love usually doesn't happen in one night or at first sight. Still, the soulmate connection gives me hope.   
  
"And sometimes I wonder if you have a brain at all," I respond sweetly. I ignore the sullenly disgruntled look he sends my way. His silence simply compounds the impression of displeasure. "Okay..."   
  
Pausing, I think for a moment, trying to figure out a way to resolve this. Playing pretend obviously didn't work, not that it ever did with Bastien. My thoughts center on my previous revelation that leaving them alone together will work miracles and move mountains.   
  
Or it could have the same end results as a nuclear explosion. I'm hoping for something more positive than that, especially since a crater would be a little hard to explain and a little more destructive than I'm trying to be. Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for.   
  
They're staring at me. I think they might be wondering why my voice trailed off and what I was thinking about in that small span of time, drifting away in memories and madness. I wish I could share myself with them, but so much is gone already that I don't dare take the risk.   
  
"...I'm going to leave you two alone now..."  
  
Both faces darkening like storm clouds churning across sunlight-streaked skies. Something twisting and flickering through Bastien's eyes, something that looks like...  
  
Betrayal.   
  
...as if I'd stolen the sun from the sky and doused it in an ocean, forever destroying its heat in those cooling waters. As if I'd sent the last snowflake drifting into hell, my laughter accompanying it on its way to those fiery recesses. As if he'd been betrayed.   
  
I'm momentarily stunned into speechlessness. In fact, I'm so thrown by those accusing threads radiating from his eyes that my words falter like pebbles skipping crazily over whipping water. They skim the air more and more slowly, until finally they sink into nothingness.   
  
Tightening my resolve, I clamp down on my annoying habit of empathizing with Bastien and with what he wants. That habit is just going to make it harder to break away. And really, I've never been a fan of vandalism, so I'm just going to leave Bastien's mental health alone.   
  
It's not hard to figure out why that expression swims in his eyes. He doesn't want to be left alone with her, or even have anything to do with her. In his eyes, I'm abandoning him to her mercy. I'd *like* to abandon him to mental hospital, or maybe a prison ward. It's a shame we don't always get what we want.   
  
Holding my breath -- metaphorically, of course, since I don't really breathe -- I block his hurt from my mind and staunch the answering ache flowing from my heart. Sometimes you have to guard your emotions so they don't run rampant. Mine are locked up in a padded cell. I threw the figurative key into the Thames or the Seine or the Loire during one of my astral projections. I'm not entirely sure which one, something that could make finding it rather difficult.   
  
That accusing emotion deepens during the silence, mahogany knives cutting through flesh and carving through bone, until his eyes are only blades that wound me. He seems to want me to say something, to take that pain away...   
  
If I had a throat to clear, now would be the time to do it. But even then, I don't think I could bring myself to finish my thought. With a weak smile, I wave to them and fade away.   
  
You realize, of course, that I don't really intend to leave. We ghosts have this neat trick of going all invisible, but remaining in the room. I've every intention of monitoring the conversation. After all, what's the point of having these skills if you can't use them?  
  
When I listed my virtues, having morals was not one of them.   
  
For this reason, I feel no remorse about eavesdropping and spying. I've got just as much invested in the outcome of this as they do. So much that I have a *responsibility* to stay. Well, maybe not, but it sounds good, doesn't it?  
  
I have to swallow the choking outrage rising at Bastien's first spoken words. I realize I shouldn't have expected more from him, but this refusal to cooperate is rage inducing, not to mention redundant. It's a shame I'm supposed to have left and can't talk.   
  
"I don't want you."   
  
As usual, his voice brooks no argument and leaves no room for discussion. Bastien is the textbook definition of predictable, right down to the fine print. It's going to take quite a bit on her part to make him listen. Lucky for me, I have faith in her.   
  
Which I should. She smiles slightly, looking sadly down at her hands, her expression just resigned enough to be poignant, and just hopeful enough to be inspiring. That spun gold hair falls like a curtain over her face, but oddly, her voice is clear and sweet when she speaks.   
  
"I know you don't," she says softly.   
  
Her fingers twist fretfully in her lap, the gesture unconsciously betraying her nervousness despite her obvious efforts to keep her lower lip from trembling. Now that I'm gone, she's reverted back into her shy and uncertain self, clumsily fumbling through the motions that will bring them closer together if done right.   
  
Her words bring only silence.   
  
Bastien glares and Ianthe cowers, but for several long and stinging seconds, nothing else is said. Just silence, a void that sometimes speaks louder and more clearly than words, in this case offering only rejection and diffidence. While words can be painful, silence can cut deeper than the most finely honed blade, ripping your heart and turning the pieces into a finely chopped pedigree meal.   
  
The smile wavers and fades. Tears glisten in her bright eyes, hovering in that split second between falling and fading, and brighten the color to the deepest and most gorgeous blue of day. With a tremulous sigh, she speaks. "I know you love Anna," she says, her tone so careful and apologetic that I nearly want to snort with laughter, "and I don't expect you to stop loving her."  
  
Something like surprise flashes over his features it before he quickly buries it under that apathetic mask. She's caught his attention with that statement, which grudgingly earns my respect. Grudging only because I *want* him to forget me. But, as I've already said, my methods apparently weren't working, so if this is the way she needs to do it, she's got my approval, as well as my one hundred percent backing. I'm not going to nitpick over the methods. Only over the results.   
  
Still, he keeps his mouth shut, which might be a record for him. He's much more likely to be verbally obstinate than silently glare, which matches my personality more than Ianthe's. Whereas she's playing the unobtrusive maiden of old, I'd probably look him straight in the eye and tell him where exactly he can put his tenacity. And, if that didn't work, I'd help him find that place by putting it there myself.   
  
Ianthe drops her gaze back to her hands. They pause, then flatten against her thighs in an attempt to soothe shattered nerves. When I look closely, I realize she's gripping her knees so tightly that her knuckles are a bloodless white.   
  
"I don't think you should ever forget her," she ventures, her voice still that soothing tone I've heard used to calm wild horses. "She seems special, but... Sebastien, she said it herself. She's dead."  
  
His eyes slide shut, his teeth clenching tightly and a muscle ticking in his jaw. It's not been a good night for him. I think he's finally realized he's not going to win this one, no matter how hard he tries or how uncooperative he is. A low sound rumbles in his throat. Finally, he shakes his head, as if to deny the truth of the situation.   
  
She sighs, the resignation creeping over the hopefulness until one emotion eclipses the other, and then she stands. Quietly, watching as Bastien's body tenses in anticipation, she moves closer, until she's standing mere breaths away. He looks like he's in pain, waiting for her to make that first fatal move.   
  
But instead of moving, she simply stands quietly near him without fidgeting. The invasion of his space must be driving him crazy. I can see him flinching away from her though he never actually moves, holding his place almost like he's punishing himself for something. Maybe for loving me. Maybe for giving Ianthe a chance.   
  
It's hard to tell how his mind works.   
  
"I don't want you to give her memory up entirely," she whispers. Tilting her face so that she's staring up at him, her lips brush the air only millimeters away from his. He tenses further, waiting for that first touch of mouth against mouth like the sealing of a pact. But Ianthe doesn't move, doesn't fill the growing cavern of anticipation.   
  
Time and emotion hang frozen between them. Then Bastien groans and his shoulders slump, his words more a moan than anything else. "Then what do you want from me?" he demands, and even Ianthe seems to notice the charged need in his voice.   
  
The tension electrifying the air is both tangible and palatable. It's not entirely related to their conversation. I can sense uncertain undertones linking their closeness and those voiceless signals they're sending to each other like emergency flares during a traffic accident. The only difference is, the flares are a safety precaution, but the silent communication between Bastien and Ianthe is more likely to make them go up flames. And that reaction is about as far from harmless as you can get.   
  
Her eyes have been trained on his mouth, which I must say is delightfully full and sensuous and which he knows how to use, but now they shift to stare at the wall, the floor, the ceiling. Anywhere but at his face.   
  
She has these on and off moments of courage. Sometimes she seems ready to slap him. Others she seems to shrink away. It's anyone's guess as to what she's really thinking and how she really feels. So far she seems reasonable, if not remarkably brave. Occasionally that's something that can only come with time.   
  
Biting her lower lip, which draws Bastien's attention to her mouth, she looks up at him. Her eyes have darkened, either with worry or fear, but either way, they're a luminous color I've never seen before, to which I have nothing to compare. I think that any effort to find a comparison would fall flat, so I'm not even going to bother.   
  
I wouldn't be able to do it justice anyway.   
  
Still just a shallow dip of air away, her mouth curves in a smile, but it's one of those sad smiles that says everything is being laid bare before him, that her heart is his to shatter or shelter. "I just want a chance," she says softly.   
  
And at that statement, something new sparks in Bastien's face. Something like wonder, or maybe trepidation, but whatever it is, it's the first time he's expressed it. Then he seems to realize who he is, what he's doing, and where he is. Like a camera's shutter clacking closed over the lens, he tucks that emotion away. "I--"   
  
Before he can get out more than a single syllable, she rises on the very tip of her toes (Bastien's quite a bit taller than she is) and shuts his mouth with her own. I saw this coming ages ago, when they first sat beside each other, the tension so sharp it could be marketed as a weapon of war. I remember what it felt like to kiss him, memory and longing so heartrending that I almost want to scream with jealousy. It's not Bastien I want, but feeling someone else's touch instead of simply... nothing.   
  
I can't tear my eyes away.  
  
I know it's rude to watch them, but they can't see me anyway, right? And I really can't help myself. My eyes are drawn to the clashing of mouths against each other, so gentle and chaste that it's nearly frightening. I can see that emotion breaking over Bastien's face, like he's just discovered a miracle. I'm not sure that's far from the truth.   
  
A moment later, I realize that tears run down Bastien's face in silent, glistening rivulets, and this time, I'm the one who's shocked. I have only rarely seen Bastien cry. Ianthe pulls away from him them, her lily petal skin flushed and heated. One hand rises to his face, the pad of her thumb brushing away that dampness.   
  
The emotion singing between them cannot be expressed in words.  
  
He dips his head once more, his lips moving softly over hers. I can hear the sound of my heart breaking. Yes, I want to rest in peace, and yes, I think Bastien should let me go, get on with his life, etc, etc. But I wasn't lying to Ianthe when I said I loved him. He's as much a part of me as I am of him, which is part of the reason it's been so hard for him to do what I want.   
  
When he looks up, it takes him a moment to focus. "Maybe I should let her go," Bastien murmurs, that dazed wonder never quite fading from his eyes.   
  
Ianthe smiles softly at him, her head descending in a supportive nod. "Maybe," she whispers back, her breath catching on that single word. "Should you tell her that? She doesn't have much time left."  
  
He nods, the scant light rippling over the smooth plane of his cheek. Gathering his breath into his lungs as though he's just been resuscitated after a near drowning, he shudders back into reality. I have to remind myself how sweet it is. Otherwise, I might lose my transparent insides at how *cute* they're being.   
  
"Yeah," he agrees, his voice still shaky. Staring at her like he's trying to memorize her face, as if he's trying draw her in, he hesitates a moment, then calls, "Anna!"   
  
And let me just tell you, the tone of his voice is really, really insulting. He probably doesn't mean it to be, but really! We were together in some form or another for seven years. Now he calls my name like I'm some annoying tramp who refuses to leave. I'm tempted not to show myself at all.   
  
But finally, I figure it's probably a better idea. Closure is always a plus. Thinking evil thoughts to myself the entire time, I float over to the wall, where I decide to materialize. They're staring at where I originally was, and I feel the need to be difficult.   
  
A few seconds later, when they still haven't noticed me hovering with my arms crossed over the space where my chest should be (and is, if you look at it from the right angle), I clear my throat. Both whirl, turning to face me like I'm the premiere leader of the Inquisition, guilt etched over their faces.   
  
I think it's adorable that they feel guilty about doing exactly what I asked them to do.   
  
Oddly enough, under that guilt, Bastien looks pained, as though whatever thoughts or feelings he has hurt him terribly. "Anna, I--"   
  
"You what?" I counter evenly. My voice and gaze are level. My arms stay folded obstinately across my chest.   
  
He sighs. "Anna, I love you. I'll always love you."   
  
"But?"   
  
Surprise jumps over his features, as if the silence and that word weren't so loud they spoke for him. "But I need Ianthe. She's alive and you're..."   
  
"Not," I finish, when his voice trails off, and I break into a wide smile. He nods, even while he looks uncertain. I wish I could hug him and tell him it will all be okay, but again, it's that lack of arms thing. Not being solid really puts a damper on old habits. "It's okay," I tell him gently.   
  
"I do love you."   
  
The seriousness suffusing his voice is heartwarming. Really. It forces that ache into a pulsing, burning mass of regret, but I can't pay attention to that. I can already feel a strange tingling, something that's been missing for that whole two year span that I've been dead.   
  
Ghostly tears glisten in my eyes and I have to swallow hard to blink them back. I know they're not really there, but reality is a completely subjective thing, and in mine, I'm crying. "I know," I whisper. "I love you, too."  
  
I'm starting to fade away now. Where my feet would have touched the floor, I used to be almost solid. Present time, I'm quickly losing shape from the legs up. His face tightens. I think he might be crying again, which he really does hate. Says it's unmanly or something ridiculous like that.  
  
He knows I'm really going to be gone for good this time and it's wounding him.   
  
Ianthe gathers him into her arms, pulling him around so that his back is to me. So he doesn't have to watch, or at least that's what I think at first. I'm almost gone now, the ghost tears slipping down my cheeks more and more rapidly, dripping into their own disappearance. My consciousness has started fading, too.   
  
At that last moment, as I'm feeling myself welcomed into so much tranquility that it's almost unbearable, I look at them one more time. Ianthe is staring at me, triumph etched across her face. My eyes narrow, trying to focus on her, and her smile widens.   
  
Then, so quickly that I would have missed it if I weren't watching so closely, Ianthe's features shift and meld. For just a second, Melissa's face stares guilelessly back at me, then that smiles stretches into more of a sneer. My sister, but not my sister. Her lips slowly and deliberately form the words "I won."  
  
I have one last thought before I give myself over to that solemn and welcoming peacefulness. One last conscious string of realizations before I let myself go. And that is that Ianthe fooled me, that she played us both, and that she is my murderer.   
  
I seem to have lost a game I didn't know I was playing, and indeed, helped my opponent across the finish line. I lost my life over a prize I'm not sure I would have fought for. And with that insight came another. All this time, I thought I was someone else's punishment, someone else's penance for past sins. But I was wrong.   
  
I thought I was Bastien's anathema.   
  
Now I know that he was mine. 


End file.
